Sinner
Toting her luggage behind her, Ashlynne Tabard walked through the crowded airport, looking for the assistant that Professor Royden had sent to pick her up at Heathrow. She spotted the young man in a group of people who were all holding signs with either tour groups' or passengers' names written on them.
"Hi. I'm Ashlynne," she introduced herself.
"Fergus MacLean. Pleased to meet you," he replied. "Here, let me help you with your bags."
"Thanks," she said, handing him her heavy carry-on.
"Is this your first time in London?" he asked as they made their way to the car park.
"Yes, it is. Are you from here?"
"No, Scotland. I was born in a little village in the Highlands, but I studied archeology in Edinburgh. That's where I met Professor Royden. He was a guest lecturer there. How did you meet him?"
"I haven't had the pleasure yet. I wrote him a letter, asking—begging—for an internship. I told him I was willing to do even the most menial work and that he wouldn't have to pay me. Hell, I'd be willing to pay him just for the experience."
"Really? Personally, I'd rather work in Egypt's Valley of the Kings or at Pompeii."
"I suppose I'm an Anglophile at heart. When I heard the professor discovered a previously unknown priory that was destroyed during Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries, I knew I had to be a part of the dig."
When they got to the car, a Vauxhall Corsa, Fergus put the luggage in the boot and unlocked the passenger door.
"Make yourself comfortable. We've got a five-hour drive ahead of us."
"That long? I always thought England was a small island."
"Don't worry. We can always stop at a lay-by along the way and stretch our legs."
As they headed north along the M1, Ashlynne was disappointed by her first impression of the UK.
"Except for the fact that the cars are on the opposite side of the road, I can't see much difference between England and America. Highways are highways."
When they eventually left the motorway, however, the young American got her first true glimpse of the picturesque English villages that were so often seen in British TV shows like Midsomer Murders.
This is the England I wanted to see, she thought, using her cell phone to take a picture of a house with a thatched roof.
"Snapping photos with your mobile, huh?" Fergus laughed. "I would have taken you for an old-fashioned girl who preferred using a regular camera."
"And you'd be right, but my Nikon is in my suitcase."
"You and I are going to get along just great," he laughed.
* * *
Nearly six hours later, they finally arrived at the campsite, a collection of tents used by Professor Royden's team for both living and working.
"Where is everyone?" Ashlynne asked.
"At the dig site. We usually work until the sun sets," Fergus explained. "Let me give you a tour of the place. That's the mess tent, that's the women's shower room and over there is the men's. The portaloos are in back of the showers. The big tent with the heavy rain shield is our communications center—a fancy name for a tent with a radio, a TV, a DVD player and a couple of computers. And here is your tent. Home sweet home for as long as the project lasts, or until you've had enough of these primitive conditions and return to America."
"No way! I love it here already."
"I'll give you a few minutes to get settled in, and then I'll take you to the site."
"I'm ready," Ashlynne announced after putting her luggage in her tent and stopping at the portaloo.
"Those are the ruins of the old priory up ahead," Fergus announced after a short drive.
"That's it?" the disenchanted American asked. "I was expecting something along the lines of Whitby Abbey or Lindisfarne Priory or at least towering arches like those of Rievaulx Abbey. There's no skeleton of the original building here, only some half-buried foundations."
"That's what makes this priory such an incredible find. Unlike the others, its order was not only dissolved but the building was destroyed. Someone at some point in time took the trouble to level it. And there's no reference to it anywhere in any of the church or civil archives."
"Maybe it was too small to be of any importance."
"No. Our excavations so far show it was quite a large complex of buildings, as large if not larger than Glastonbury."
There were two other cars parked near the dig: a beat-up Land Rover and a Volvo. Fergus pulled the Vauxhall up beside them.
"Hey, everybody!" he called. "I'd like you all to meet Ashlynne Tabard, the latest member of our team."
The nine people, most of whom were digging up scoops of dirt with trowels and pouring them through screens as though panning for gold in the Old West, greeted her but kept on excavating.
"I don't want to bombard you with their names right now. It's better you get to know them on an individual basis."
"That's fine. Why don't you just point me to a sector on the grid, and I'll begin working?"
"You can take it easy today. I'm sure the professor will want to talk to you before you start digging."
"Where is he, by the way?"
Gabriella LaVoisin, an archeologist from Paris who had joined the dig with her husband, Michel, replied, "He went to see Lord Uttridge in hopes of getting more money out of him."
"Is the project in financial trouble?" Ashlynne asked, fearing for her job.
"Don't worry," Michel laughed. "There's more than enough money to fund this excavation for a few more years. But Royden hopes to eventually turn this whole place into a tourist attraction, so he makes frequent visits to Lord Uttridge, who imagines himself a Lord Carnarvon to Royden's Howard Carter."
Ashlynne surmised Professor Royden's motive for giving her an internship despite her lack of field experience had something to do with her family name, which was well-known on both sides of the Atlantic. No doubt, her new employer saw her wealthy father as a potential source of funding.
For the remainder of the afternoon, she watched while the others worked. Their routine was repetitive to the point of being monotonous. Each person carefully screened the soil, never going beyond the bounds of their designated square in the carefully marked matrix.
"I found what looks like a piece of tile," Elke Schmitt announced.
The German archeologist then sealed her find in a bubble wrap packet for safekeeping and put a label on the bag for identification.
All that work for a piece of tile no bigger than a credit card, Ashlynne thought. Maybe I chose the wrong profession.
Once the sun began to set, Mel Queensberry, a man who had been working with Professor Royden since 1983, suggested everyone stop for the day. No one put up an argument as they stood up and stretched their aching muscles.
"Why don't we all go to the pub and give our newest team member a proper welcome?" Webster Dashwood, a recent Oxford grad, asked.
"Great idea!" Levi Cotterill agreed. "I could use a pint about now."
Mindful that they had another busy day ahead of them the next morning, the members of Professor Royden's team were careful not to drink too much. Sobriety did not dampen their good spirits, however.
"Don't take this the wrong way," said Penelope Blount, the only British woman in the group, "but I hope there won't be any more people added to the team."
"Why not?" asked Gruffydd Pugh, a young man from Cardiff.
"Because if you count the professor, that makes an even dozen people. Another employee would bring the total to thirteen."
"You're not superstitious, are you?" teased Casper Janssen, a handsome, good-natured young man from Utrecht.
"If you were to ask me that question in London, I would say no. But here, in this desolate place, I might give you a different answer."
* * *
Professor Royden returned to the camp at daybreak as his team was getting ready to go to the dig site.
"You must be Ashlynne," he said when he saw the American drinking coffee in the mess tent. "I can't tell you how glad I am you're here. There's so much cataloging to be done. You have worked with databases before, haven't you?"
"Yes, but I thought I would be working in the field with the other archeologists."
"Eventually you will. Right now, I desperately need someone to make a detailed and accurate inventory of everything we've found so far."
"Frankly, Professor, I didn't come all this way to be a secretary."
"In your letter, you did say you would do anything to help out," he reminded her.
The portly professor had such a jovial manner that she found it hard to be angry with him.
"You're right," she conceded. "It seems I've been hoisted by my own petard."
Once she finished her coffee, rinsed her cup out and left it on the drainboard to dry, she followed the professor to the communications tent.
"You can start with these," he explained, handing her a large plastic bin containing scraps of paper, of varying sizes, that contained handwritten notes—if you could call the nearly indecipherable chicken scratch handwriting. "Just type the data in the appropriate field: the date of the find, the item number, the sector in which the item was found, a very brief description of the object and the name of the archeologist who found it."
"That seems easy enough," Ashlynne said, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
"I'll make a deal with you. You do the cataloging five days a week, and on the sixth, you can join the others at the dig site."
"What about the seventh day?" she asked, her mood greatly improved.
"We don't work on Sundays. After all, even God rested on the seventh day."
After the professor left the tent, Ashlynne sat in front of the computer with the container of notes by her side. What she thought would be a tedious job turned out to be quite interesting. The fragments of pottery, bits of metal and scraps of fabric were like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that, when fit together, would reveal a story of the past. Although there was no written information about the priory, the objects found there strongly indicated it was once a nunnery.
She had been entering data for more than two hours when she heard a sound outside the tent.
"Hello?" she called. "Is anyone there?"
Her only reply was a rustling sound as though someone was lifting a tent flap. Visions of thieves ransacking the tents came to her mind. Fearful for her safety, Ashlynne looked for a potential hiding spot. There was no closet to cower in and no bed to crawl beneath. She tiptoed to the opening and looked outside.
Oh my God! It's a bear! she thought when she saw the large black animal wandering between two tents. What do I do?
The animal turned and looked at her. It was no bear; it was a Newfoundland dog. It was more than two feet in height and weighed, by rough estimate, more than a hundred pounds. As the dog approached, she briefly wondered if it was vicious or—God forbid—rabid.
"Damn! I wish I never read Cujo!"
However, the dog's sad brown eyes drove her fears away.
"Are you looking for something to eat?"
The dog began to wag its tail.
A warning voice in her head told her not to feed the animal: you'll never get rid of it if you do. But, as frequently happened, she ignored the voice.
"Come on, boy. Let's see what we've got in the mess tent."
* * *
"What's this?" Michel asked when the team members returned to the campsite that evening and found the black dog sleeping at Ashlynne's feet.
"We have a visitor," the American replied. "He wandered in here this morning."
"Who does it belong to?" Levi inquired.
"I don't know. He isn't wearing any tags."
"There are no houses around here," Mel said, "so he's either lost or a stray."
"I'll call the RSPCA," Fergus offered. "They'll come and pick him up."
"No. I'll take care of him. We could use a watchdog around here, and I'd appreciate the company when I'm here by myself."
"But you don't know anything about this animal," Fergus argued. "He might have rabies or some other disease. What if he bites one of us?"
"He won't. He's a big baby. And unless his owners come looking for him, I'm keeping him."
As the daughter of one of America's one-percenters, Ashlynne was used to getting her way. Regardless of what Fergus or any of the others said, the dog would stay. Either that or they would both leave.
"What's he going to eat?" Gruffydd asked.
"I shared my lunch with him before, but I'm going to drive into the village later and buy some dog food. Does anybody want to come along?"
"Why don't you let me drive you?" Fergus suggested. "You haven't had any practice driving on the left side of the road yet."
After they finished their dinner, Ashlynne and Fergus headed toward the Corsa. The dog got up from its spot and followed its new owner to the car.
"I'm sorry, boy," she said, running her hand along the length of his back. "You have to stay here."
As though he understood her, the animal turned around, walked to her tent and promptly fell asleep by the front flap.
"He's well-trained," Fergus observed. "He must belong to someone."
"Maybe while you're in the village," Mel said, "you can ask around and see if anyone is missing a dog."
"That's a good idea," Ashlynne said in an unenthusiastic voice that conveyed to her coworkers that she did not want to give up the animal.
When the Vauxhall returned to the campsite an hour later, Fergus was hauling several large bags of Forthglade dry dog food and Ashlynne was carrying a case of canned wet food. The Newfoundland, who had slept while they were gone, woke and walked toward the woman, wagging his tail in welcome.
"It's as though he knows you already," Gabriella observed.
"That's a lot of dog food," Casper laughed. "Are you expecting any more furry friends to appear?"
"That's not all of it," the American replied. "There are dog biscuits and rawhide treats in the car as well. I figure since he's a big dog, he'll eat a lot. Besides, I don't know when I'll get to the village again."
Once the dog was fed, Ashlynne joined the others in the communications tent where they were watching Goodfellas on DVD. They were up to the part where Joe Pesci shoots Michael Imperioli in the foot.
"You want us to replay it from the beginning?" Levi asked.
"That's okay. I've seen this movie before. I know what happened."
At the conclusion of the film, the archeologists all went to their tents. The dog followed the American to hers without any coaxing. The next morning, when the team assembled in the mess tent at dawn before heading out to the field—and Ashlynne to the computer—they were one short.
"Where's Gruffydd?" Professor Royden inquired.
"He must have overslept. I'll go wake him up," Fergus volunteered. He returned a few minutes later and announced, "He's not there."
"I'll go look for him," Webster said and quickly gulped down the last of his Earl Grey.
Fergus and Levi went with him. The three men searched the entire campsite but found no trace of the missing archeologist.
"He's got to be here somewhere," Casper insisted. "All three vehicles are accounted for, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't walk to the village."
Soon all eleven remaining members of the team joined in the search, including the professor.
"His glasses and his cell phone are in the tent," Michel told the others as they stood at the center of the compound, wondering where to look next. "He wouldn't have gone anywhere without them."
"Maybe we should call the police," Ashlynne said.
"I don't think there's much any of you can do here," the professor declared. "We've searched the entire place. Why don't you go out to the dig site and I'll phone the constable in the village?"
Having seen no evidence of violence inside Gruffydd's tent, the policeman was fairly confident the young man left the camp of his own accord and would most likely return soon enough.
"Meanwhile, we'll keep a lookout for him in the village. I'll ring you on your mobile if I see any sign of him."
"Is that it?" Ashlynne asked the constable. "You're not going to organize a search party to look for him?"
"This isn't London or Manchester. We don't have the manpower to go combing through the countryside."
"But Gruffydd might be sick or injured. He might die if we don't find him."
"You have what," he said, addressing the professor, "a dozen or so people here?"
"Eleven without the missing man."
"I might be able to get a few villagers to join you. Let me go talk to some people, and I'll get back to you."
Midmorning, the Vauxhall returned to the campsite, but the news Fergus wanted to share with the professor had nothing to do with his missing teammate.
"This is an incredible find!" he exclaimed.
"What is it?" Royden asked.
"We've located human remains."
In the wake of the discovery, the search for Gruffydd Pugh was all but forgotten. Judging by the appearance of the pelvic bone, the professor concluded that the intact skeleton belonged to a woman. After photographing the bones from nearly every possible angle, the remains were exhumed and sent to the lab for radiocarbon dating.
"We've suspected for some time that this was a nunnery, so we shouldn't be surprised to find a woman buried here," Royden said.
"But why inside the priory?" Ashlynne asked. "Why not in the churchyard?"
"She must have been someone of importance, perhaps a prioress of the order. It was the custom in the past, to bury kings, queens and others of noble birth inside the cathedrals. Look at how many people are buried inside Westminster Abbey and in St. George's Chapel at Windsor. That's where old Henry VIII lies next to Jane Seymour. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if we find more skeletons here."
Three days later—during which time Gruffydd Pugh was not found either alive or dead—the results of the radiocarbon dating were sent to the professor.
"Carbon-14 levels indicate the woman died anywhere from 1480 to 1520," he told his team. "We've determined the priory was built sometime in the twelfth century, and Old Henry began dissolving the monasteries in the 1530s. This data confirms my hypotheses that she was buried here when the priory was used as a nunnery."
* * *
The following Saturday, the only day of the week Ashlynne was able to join her fellow archeologists in the field, a second skeleton was discovered. It, too, belonged to a female.
"If these women were people of importance, why were they just dumped in the ground like that with nothing but a shroud to cover them?" Ashlynne inquired as she and Fergus headed back to the campsite at the end of the day.
"Coffins did not come into use until the seventeenth century."
When the American opened the passenger door and got out of the Vauxhall, the dog walked toward her, wagging his tail.
"Did you miss me, boy?" she asked, stooping down to pet him.
"He really took to you."
"Maybe he senses that I'm an animal lover."
Dinner for the humans was a frozen lasagna heated in the microwave oven. For the dog, it was Forthglade's chicken with brown rice.
"You know, I think the dog eats better than we do," Gabriella laughed.
Her husband, Michel, closed his eyes and said, "If we were home in France, we would be dining on a nice quiche or a cassoulet, a fresh-baked loaf of bread, a bottle of wine. Ah! How I miss the comforts of home."
"I'd kill for some fish and chips from my hometown pub," Mel announced.
"For me, it is my mother's sauerbraten. What about you, Ashlynne?" Elke asked. "What food do you miss most?"
"Pepperoni pizza with extra cheese."
"Not a hamburger?" Casper teased. "I thought Americans lived on hamburgers and French fries."
"Ugh! I hate that expression," Gabriella laughed. "There's nothing French about French fries."
Although the conversation was lighthearted, at the back of everyone's mind was the question, "Where is Gruffydd?"
"Do you think he's out there somewhere?" Penelope asked when she turned off the DVD player after the Monte Python comedy they were watching came to an end.
"Honestly? I don't know where he could be," Levi replied.
Little did any of them imagine that the following morning Levi, too, would go missing. Since it was a Sunday, all of them were present at the campsite when they learned of the disappearance.
"Did anyone hear anything during the night?" the constable asked and received a negative response. "I notice you have a dog here? Did he bark?"
"No," Ashlynne answered. "He sleeps in my tent. If he had, I would have heard him."
More than twenty people from the village joined with nine of the archeologists to search the surrounding countryside. Professor Royden remained at the campsite just in case either of the men turned up there. The search was called off when the sun set. The following day, a canine unit and two helicopters assisted the volunteers. Still, neither of the missing men was found.
There were more volunteers a week later when Casper Janssen, the Dutch archeologist from Utrecht, became the third person to go missing.
"Don't you think it's odd?" Penelope asked as the remaining team members sat in the mess tent eating microwaved Salisbury steaks. "We found three skeletons buried beneath the priory, and three of us have gone missing."
"It's just a coincidence," Webster insisted.
"Is it? They say things happen in threes."
"You and your foolish superstitions!" Elke exclaimed. "How did you ever get to be a scientist?"
"By maintaining an open mind. I'm willing to consider all things, even those arcane matters that my colleagues scoff at."
When Webster and Mel went missing the same day the fourth and fifth skeletons were discovered, not even the cynical German archeologist laughed at Penelope's superstitions.
* * *
With five people having disappeared over such a short period of time, and as yet no clue as to what had become of any of them, Scotland Yard became involved in the case.
"We can't discount the possibility that there's a serial killer on the loose," DCI Merwin Humes said when he met with Professor Royden and his team.
"Have there been any disappearances in the village?" Michel inquired.
"No."
"You don't think it could be one of us?" Fergus asked.
"We're not ruling anyone out."
The archeologists looked at each other with suspicion, wondering which of them might be a killer. Eventually, all eyes lingered on Ashlynne Tabard.
"Don't look at me!" she exclaimed. "Just because I come from a gun-happy county doesn't make me a psychopath."
"You were the last person to arrive," Penelope pointed out.
"I suggest you all refrain from accusing one another," the detective chief inspector advised. "It's my job to find the perpetrator of these crimes, not yours. You all just go about your business as usual."
"Don't give us that old British 'keep calm and carry on' crap," Gabriella argued. "Our lives are in danger."
"I'll assign a man to keep watch over the campsite and accompany you out to the field."
"Thank you," the professor said, relieved that his project would not have to come to a crashing halt.
"Meanwhile, we'll continue to search for your colleagues."
DCI Humes did not tell them that he would lead an in-depth inquiry into all their backgrounds. If one of them was a killer, he did not want to scare him—or her—into doing a runner.
A week went by. Then two. With no further disappearances, tensions at the campsite began to ease. But Humes was making no headway on the case. His inquiries into the archeologists' backgrounds revealed no previous criminal behavior or mental issues.
These people all seem harmless enough, he thought.
Perhaps something in the background of one of the missing team members might shed some light on the investigation.
* * *
Despite the light drizzle that fell, the team, with the exception of Professor Royden and Ashlynne, went to the dig site. They were not out in the field long when Elke unearthed another human skeleton.
"I'd better tell the professor what we've found," she declared.
Unable to reach him via mobile phone, she got into the Land Rover and headed back to camp.
"It's starting to come down harder," Fergus noted twenty minutes later. "Let's call it a day. We can't dig in the mud."
On the drive back to the campsite, they found the Land Rover on the side of the road.
"It must have broken down," Michel theorized.
But when Fergus got behind the wheel, he had no difficulty starting the vehicle.
"You don't think Elke has gone missing now?" Mel asked.
"No. She probably stalled the engine and then decided to walk," Gabriella replied reassuringly.
However, when they got back to the base camp, there was no sign of the German archeologist.
"That makes six," Penelope announced gloomily.
Michel looked at his wife, who nodded in response to his unspoken question.
"Right. We're leaving," he announced.
"Make sure you bring one of the policemen with you when you go into the village," Fergus suggested.
"We're not going to the village," Gabriella explained. "We're returning to France."
"You can't leave," the professor argued.
"The police have no reason to hold us here."
"But ...."
"Save your breath," Michel said. "We're not staying here another day."
Within the hour, the couple's bags were packed and one of Merwin Humes's men dropped them off in the village where they took a bus to the airport.
"You can forget about the cataloging for now," Professor Royden told Ashlynne, "I'll need you out in the field until I can hire additional staff."
In truth, the American had considered returning home as the LaVoisins had. But now that she was being liberated from a desk job, she decided to stick around a while longer.
That evening there were only three people in the mess tent: Ashlynne, Fergus and Penelope. Professor Royden claimed he had no appetite and took refuge in his own tent. As she toyed with her less-than-appetizing beef stew, Penelope stared broodingly at the animal sitting on the floor at the American's feet.
"This all started when he appeared at the campsite," she said.
"Who? The dog?" Ashlynne asked with amused disbelief. "You can't think he's responsible for the disappearances!"
"Have you ever heard of a church grim? It's a guardian spirit that usually takes the shape of a big black dog."
"If that's true, why isn't he protecting us from whoever is doing this?"
"A grim doesn't protect people; it guards the church against those who would profane it or commit sacrilege against it."
"Are you serious?"
Ashlynne did not want to be rude, but she could not stop herself from laughing.
"You mark my words. That animal will ...."
Penelope stopped speaking when the professor entered the tent.
"I've got some bad news," he announced. "I just got off the phone with DCI Humes. Michel and Gabriella made it to the airport, but they never boarded their plane. It seems they're missing."
"This is no doubt more of his doing!" Penelope screamed, pointing to the dog.
The following morning, when two more skeletons were unearthed, her suspicions were confirmed—in her own mind at least.
* * *
Professor Royden nervously clasped and unclasped his hands as his three remaining employees waited for him to speak.
"As much as I hate to do this, I think I might have to pull the plug on this expedition."
"What's the point?" Ashlynne cried. "Do you think if we leave, we'll be safe? That's exactly what Michel and Gabriella believed. What good did it do them?"
"I say we get rid of the dog," Penelope announced. "With him gone, we might have a chance."
"You're not going to touch this animal! You even come near him, and I'll let you have it."
"Stop it!" Fergus shouted. "Amid all these problems, we don't need a catfight!"
"Sorry," Ashlynne said. "But I'm not getting rid of him."
"Fine. I don't know what the two of you intend to do, but I'm going out to the field. If the killer wants to get me, I don't suppose going home to Liverpool will stop him."
"And you ladies?" the professor asked.
Ashlynne was quick to agree, but Penelope was reluctant.
"How do we know the LaVoisins disappeared? Maybe they decided at the last minute to stay in England a while longer."
"You make up your mind what you want to do," Fergus said, taking the keys out of his pocket and heading toward the Vauxhall.
"Why don't we take the Land Rover?" Ashlynne asked. "I want to bring the dog with us."
Despite her fears, Penelope went along with the others, leaving the professor at the campsite.
"It's hard to believe I used to look forward to coming here," Penelope said when they arrived at the priory ruins. "Now I dread it."
"Let's get to work," Fergus said, picking up a trowel and a sieve.
It was Penelope who, forty-five minutes into her labors, saw a distal phalange buried in the ground.
"Oh, no!" she cried. "It's another one."
Fergus gently moved the surrounding earth with his trowel, revealing first the other fingers and then the hand and arm bones.
"One of us is going to disappear," the lugubrious Englishwoman predicted.
Neither of her colleagues bothered to argue with Penelope's dire assessment. But when the entire skeleton was unearthed, all three archeologists were accounted for.
"The professor?" Ashlynne asked.
Fergus took out his mobile phone and tried to contact Royden.
"No answer."
With dogged persistence, he picked up a shovel and began to dig around the area where the most recent skeleton was found. His was not the careful, meticulous method of an archeologist. Rather, it was like a man searching for buried treasure and eager to find it as soon as possible.
"Be careful," Penelope cautioned.
"Why? In all likelihood, all three of us will soon be gone."
"Then why don't we just stop digging?" Ashlynne asked.
"I can't. It's as though something is compelling me to continue."
Moments later, they heard the tip of his shovel strike a bone.
"It's a human skull," the Scotsman announced dully. "I ...."
Penelope screamed in terror as the young man from the Highlands vanished before her eyes.
"It's the grim! He's doing this!"
Eyes blazing with fear and rage, she picked up the shovel that had fallen to the ground and ran toward the helpless animal that was tied up near the Land Rover.
"No! Stop!" Ashlynne shouted.
Knowing she could not catch up with the other woman in time to save the Newfoundland, she fell to her knees and furiously dug at the ground, flinging trowels full of earth into the air. After discovering the scapula of a long-dead nun, she wondered whether she or Penelope would remain. She turned around and smiled. The woman was gone, and the dog was safe.
"I suppose since I'm the last man standing, I'll be next," she said, as she untied the animal. "If you really are a church grim, then go ahead. Do your worst."
The animal licked her face and headed toward a corner of what had once been the priory's garden. Then he sat down and barked as though calling for Ashlynne to follow him.
"Is there something there, boy?"
The dog barked again and began to paw at the ground.
"But the foundation of the priory is back there."
Another bark.
Ashlynne picked up the shovel Penelope was carrying when she disappeared, followed the dog's path and began digging.
* * *
The sun was well on its westward journey when Ashlynne unearthed a human foot.
"And then there were none," she announced. "I hope whatever fate is in store for me doesn't hurt."
She waited. Nothing happened. So, she continued to dig.
A fibula. A tibia. A patella. A femur. And still, nothing happened.
"Wait. What's this? It looks like a second skeleton, but much smaller than ...."
The skeletal remains of an infant were buried between its mother's legs.
"Sinner!"
Ashlynne whirled around at the sound of the voice. What she saw literally knocked her off her feet. All twelve missing archeologists were there. Instead of their usual work shirts, blue jeans or cargo pants, the women were dressed in medieval nun's habits and the men in the attire of clerics.
"Sinner!" Penelope repeated.
"Is this some kind of a joke you all decided to play on me?" Ashlynne asked. "If so, it isn't funny."
"Sinner," the eleven men and women said in unison.
"I've had enough of this. I'm going home to America."
"You sinned," Penelope, the apparent spokesperson for the group, proclaimed as though passing sentence after a trial.
The dog barked and when Ashlynne looked into his brown eyes, a long-forgotten memory stirred in her mind.
"Penelope was right all along," she said. "You are a church grim, but it isn't the priory you want to protect. It's me."
The dog wagged its tail and rubbed its muzzle against her arm.
"And that's me down there," she continued, pointing to the skeleton of the slain nun whose upper body remained buried in its unmarked grave.
Tears filling her eyes, she turned to face her former colleagues.
"You did this to me!" she screamed.
Penelope, a prioress of the nunnery in a past life, had ordered the death of the young nun and her infant boy and had them both unceremoniously buried in unhallowed ground. Fergus MacLean, once a priest who often heard the sisters' confessions, was the baby's father. Yet he had held his tongue when his lover and son were executed. Each of the archeologists had played a role in the nun's death, including Professor Royden, the reincarnation of the elderly bishop who failed to censure the prioress for her actions, preferring to keep the whole affair a secret.
"Not one of you raised a finger to save me. Those of you who did not bear false witness against me are guilty of remaining silent when I was accused. But you," the American said, turning toward the dog, "hope to set to right the injustice of my death and that of my innocent child."
The dog barked, and four of the eleven archeologists used their hands to free the executed nun's remains from the dirt. The other seven picked up shovels and trowels and began to dig a new grave in what had previously been the churchyard. Once the murdered nun and her child were at last resting in peace in sanctified ground, the priory grim barked one last time and disappeared.
"Where am I?" Gruffydd Pugh asked, as though waking from a long sleep.
"What's going on? I don't remember how I got here," Mel Queensberry said.
It was the same with all twelve men and women, again attired in cotton, denim and khaki. There was no memory of either the odd disappearances or the discovery of human remains at the dig site. In fact, all evidence of the skeletons vanished. Not even Ashlynne Tabard could recall the terrible injustice done to her in a past life or the fact that it had been righted after five centuries.
"I don't know how I got here either," Fergus said, picking up a trowel and a sieve, "but I might as well get to work."
When Salem saw an episode of The Flying Nun, he wanted to join a convent. I had to break the bad news to him: (1) nuns are female; (2) nuns are all Catholic; (3) whether he can fly or not, he won't be able to catch birds wearing a nun's habit.
